"Right now we need Knu and Man... Aboard the Galaxian cruiser, after the Justicians had left, a tensely thoughtful silence endured for minutes.

"My... G.o.d..." Cecily breathed, finally.

"I expected to be surprised, but not that way or that much. That Starrlah looks like a high school girl, but..." She paused, helplessly. After another silence, Barbara nodded.

"But she very definitely isn't. She's a hundred and forty pounds or so of unadulterated Bengal tigress. Babe, with their actual brainsand being top-bracket psiontists, toohow can they possibly be such utter, utter savages?" The Galaxians had done much side band reading, too. Deston shook his head and Bernice said, "I can understand how a man could be, perhaps, but she's just as bad as he is. Why, they're actually killers."

"They're weirdies, no fooling," Train agreed.

"I wonder just what kind of a culture could produce people like that'?"

"For me," Deston said, "I'm not a d.a.m.n bit sure I even want to find outever. Either one of them would just as soon cut your throat as give you the time of day." Dr. Andrew Adams remained aloof from the discussion, but on a tight band he and Stella exchanged a thought. That startling vision they had caught of a race of utter savagery-it was not these beings-but there was a kinship. That glimpse had come out of Second s.p.a.ce! Had it been prudent to exchange information with their visitors? In retrospect it hardly seemed wise... yet at the moment it had seemed the logical thing to do. The Operator... ? In GalMet's vast Research and Development Center on Galmetia, in a private laboratory, Deston, Jones, and Adams worked on that enigmatic blaster from Second s.p.a.ce. For a sidearm it was brutally heavy, weighing just under six pounds. Its barrel, made of a metalloid-ceramic unknown even to Adams, was eleven inches long and an inch and a half in outside diameter. There was no breech-block; no breech mechanism of any kind. The upper part of the thing was all barrel. The bore, only a quarter of an inch in diameter, centered the barrel and was wide open-full length and at both ends. It was aimed by sighting through the un.o.bstructed bore. Coils and complexes of insulated silver wire were imbedded in the barrel's substance, but there were no visible nodes. Both front and rear orifices were clean, smooth, and bright, showing no burning, pitting, or erosion. In spite of this fact, however, the grips of the b.u.t.t-which was located a couple of inches ahead of the rear orifice-showed so much wear that the checker work and knurling had all but disappeared. Inside the b.u.t.t, instead of a magazine or a powerpack, there were maw within mazes of wire, solidly, immovably imbedded and connected to nothing at all-not even any one to any one of the others. There were only three moving parts, a trigger, a front-plat, and a back-plate. All of these would move under the stress of operation, but not one of them could move more than an eighth of an inch and not one of them could touch anything except a stop molded into the ceramic. The only replaceable item was an encapsulated pellet of U235 the size and shape of a .45-caliber bullet, which, also, was not connected to anything. Deston knew it was uranium 235, , even though a scintillometer could not detect any radiation from it. After studying the thing for four solid days without learning anything at all, they took it to the Laboratory of Standards, where a weigh master spent two hours in weighing it to the limit of attainable accuracy. They then took it up into the hills, where they took turns firing it against a cliff, each in turn holding it until his hand was numb. After eight hours of this, after making a lake of incandescent obsidian, the weapon was just comfortably warm, and the front orifice-there had been no backward emission of any detectable kind-was as bright, as clean, as virgin as before. Next morning they took it back to Standards, where the same expert weighed it again... and who, after lunch, reported that it apparently had lost approximately three one- hundredths of one milligram.

"But this loss," the weigh master concluded brightly, "is no doubt due to wear-you handled it so much yesterday." Deston seethed quietly to himself all the way back to the laboratory, where he again drove into the thing and through it with every possible application of every sense he had and of all the lore at his command. Then he grabbed it, hurled it to the floor-where it made quite a dent in the polyplastic the-and kicked it across the room, the while cursing it vividly.

"Tut-tut, my boy," Adams soothed him.

"Mustn't let your anger get the better of you. That's a juvenile outlet."

"Juvenile, h.e.l.l!" Deston flared.

"I'm not even that. I'm a babe in arms... a fetus... a Mongoloid-idiot fetus, at that... You know what this whole d.a.m.n business reminds me of? A gang of Australian bushmen trying to figure out a ram-jet engine. What I think we'd better do is admit we're licked and go call Rodnar and get some dope on it." Adams smiled.

"I came to that conclusion some time ago, and I hazard a guess that he needs more information very badly, too."

"Huh."

"As I told him at the time, any operating manual is insufficient. It takes too much for granted. For instance, what does your manual say to do when... say, when, for instance, the square wave of 'scope twenty-six begins to show round corners."

"Why, you change your 4T6PD, of course..." Deston broke off and whistled.

"Precisely," Adams said.

"Since everyone knows exactly what a 4T6PD is, no additional information is necessary-but how will your young friend find out that it itself is an extremely complicated plug-in unit." Deston nodded.

"That makes me feel better. They could be in the same jam we are, at that."

"I'm sure of it. The basic material I brought back, while sufficient for the one purpose, does not cover the underlying theory of this weapon. The sciences of the two s.p.a.ces developed along somewhat different lines. Thus I am sure Rodnar is having trouble, and I have it in mind to suggest a school in subs.p.a.ce, where scientists of each s.p.a.ce may study the sciences of the other."

"Could be..." Deston said.

"Sounds good, the way you say it. I'll call Rodnar and find out if he's as stupid as I am." He did so. Rodnar was. Knuaire, theoretician, and Marrjyl, designer, had been called in to work with him-and together they had gotten nowhere. Starrlah had been wanting for days to call Babe, but Rodnar had been dragging his feet-wanting "just a little more time" to see if they couldn't get it without Galaxian help. The rest were sure he couldn't, and he himself was just about ready to give up. Adams went briskly to work. Theoreticians of both sides were called in. They met in intense mental conference and agreed that it would take a long time for each group to absorb fully the basic knowledges of the other. All agreed that such an exchange would be of inestimable benefit to both. A starship was sent out from First s.p.a.ce and a few dozen psiontist theoreticians went busily to work, with Adams, of course, as coordinator. For the long pull, then, everything was on the beam, but Deston and his crew did not want to sit on their hands and wait. Neither did Rodnar and Starrlah-especially not Rodnar and Starrlah. They had some really important business to do that had to be done. Hence, even before the College was much more than started, a great deal of bartering went on, the largest item of which was swapping Chaytors for blasters. Rodnar and Starrlah wanted also a light cruiser of the Galaxian fleet, in operating condition, for practical study, they said, and actual tests under various Second s.p.a.ce conditions. They would pay for it in blasters, manufactured goods, diamonds, emeralds, gold, or platinum, or they would swap a Justiciate vessel of the same cla.s.s and tonnage for it. Since the First s.p.a.ce engineers wanted a full Grahamless drive to study, the swap was made. The two Slaarans accepted delivery of the Galaxian cruiser in subs.p.a.ce and 'ported it to the Guard's shipyard on Slaar. There they made sketches of, and issued orders concerning, certain structural changes to be made in it, the princ.i.p.al one of which was the installation of an auxiliary Justiciate drive, so that it could operate in their s.p.a.ce without blowing out every instrument within range. Then they 'ported themselves home to wait impatiently until the work was done.

15 - GARSHAN ESPIONAGE.

Immediately after the defeat of the Garshan fleet and the discovery that the planet Garsh had been abandoned, Supreme Admiral Axolgan gave Psi and Quonike, the two inhabited planets of the Garshans, the logical treatment. Every military or semimilitary installation, works, plant, base, fortress, or facility was bombed out of existence without warning or opportunity to evacuate personnel. Regiment after regiment of s.p.a.ce-marines landed. Martial law was declared and rigidly enforced. All weapons, down to knives having blades over two and one-quarter inches long, were confiscated and destroyed. The penalty for possessing a weapon one day after the issuance of the edict was death on the spot. a.s.sembly was forbidden, but any group that formed in spite of that order was not dispersed. One horizontal, waist-high slash of a blaster ended it-as well as any bystanders nearby-and neighborhood Garshans either cleaned up the mess or became part of it. One hundred eighty thousand leading citizens, men and women, were seized. Their minds were read. Then they were shipped away unharmed (any more than had been necessary, that is) to feed the eagles of one hundred eighty planets at special celebrations. All those minds told the same story, a story that they all believed implicitly.

"Where are those warships?" the questioners had demanded of every person arrested.

"Where are the psiontists? Where are the ground officers and the staff." And every person gave the same answers. The Garshans were a proud race, holding honor vastly above life. If they had not been ordered to submit, they would all have killed themselves, too, but no high-status Garshan would ever be found alive. Rather than surrender and feed the eagles of the hated Justiciate, every Garshan captain had blown his vessel, with its full crew and their complements and their families, into impalpable vapor with an atomic bomb. Every psiontist and every officer aground had loaded a speedster with high explosive, taken his family aboard, gone out into deep s.p.a.ce, and blown themselves to bits. The prisoners all knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that all this was true. That was the Garshan way. Any Garshan in any position of authority would have to do just that, he could not possibly do anything else. The Justices were skeptical. Knuaire and Marrjyl were skeptical. Rodnar and Starrlah were extremely skeptical. They and thousands of other psiontists scanned all three planets, cubic yard by plotted cubic yard. Then ten thousand psiontists took to their subbers and scoured all explored s.p.a.ce and beyond, and found nothing of what they sought. Then Supreme Justice Ranjak called a special meeting of the a.s.sembly of Justices, to which he invited the Grand Commanders of the Guard of the Person. At that meeting Rodnar advocated, and then demanded, that the planets Garsh, Psi, and Quonike be bombed with cobalt and strontium and left barren for millennia to come. There were lots of inhabitable planets available and those three would make good examples. Many others agreed with him, but the a.s.sembly voted against the action by a substantial majority. Nor was this vote due entirely, or even largely, to the genocide involved. It took time, money, labor, material, and people to develop a new planet. One new planet was a tremendous burden for many years, three such, all at once, was unthinkable. Furthermore, those three planets were already highly developed, highly productive, and all contributing, each in a unique way, to the economy of the Justiciate. They would keep on doing so. As for being made examples, the way all Garshans would be treated would be a better example to all would-be rebels than would three barren planets. As for the high-status rebels still being alive somewhere... well, that was of course possible. With that possibility in mind, the Guard of the Person would be even more vigilant than before. After all, that was their business, wasn't it? The a.s.sembly of Justices adjourned. The Garshans had always been fighters, they had been at war somewhere most of the time for over a thousand years. They were the Master Race, destined to rule all s.p.a.ce. The pure blood of Garsh was the highest possible form of life, all other races were fit only to serve those of the pure blood 'Nor was that blood diluted. Alone of all the races of man, they kept their blood pure. There were no Garshan half-breeds. Miscegenation, or even casual interracial liaison, made eaglemeat of both parties to the crime. All this, the Creed of Garsh, was known throughout all explored s.p.a.ce. What was known only to high-status Garshans was what was being done to implement that Creed. Only they knew that Great Day was coming, the day when any surviving inferior races would live only to serve the Master Race. The real ability and the real brain-power of the entire Garshan race had been aimed for centuries at one objective-Great Day. Having real brains, the Garshans had never quite overstepped the line of aggression at which the Justiciate would wipe them out. Instead, they nibbled; and during that nibbling they made such contributions, particularly in technology, to the culture and to the economy that the Justiciate could not afford to wipe them out.

Thus they grew and grew, as fast and as widespread as they could without provoking punitive action. First, they conquered and practically enslaved all other races which for one reason or another had taken up residence on Garsh. Second, they fortified that planet and built a fleet that was ostensibly one unit of the Justiciate's Grand Fleet. Third, they conquered gradually and developed fully the planet Quonike. Fourth, they colonized an uninhabited planet, named it Psi, and advertised it as a haven and an ideal dwelling-place for psychics of all kinds and abilities, regardless of grade, power, status, age, race, color, or religion. At that point, as far as anyone not of the elect knew, they stopped expanding and devoted all their energies to development and consolidation. As a matter of fact, however; they had not stopped their expansion at all. They had merely shifted it to a much healthier location in s.p.a.ce-one not in the galaxy at all, but in a starcl.u.s.ter well outside it. First one planet, then two, then three, and so on. Population exploded. Technology soared. Billions of pure-blood Garshans-the Master Race, the Ordained to Rule-were being driven and were driving themselves in a fashion sheerly impossible to any race other than one of starkly dedicated fanatics, which is what the Garshans were. They believed implicitly in Garshanism. They refused to consider any belief or any philosophy of life other than Garshanism. Their minds were closed. At this time, then, when Emperor Laynch of Garsh was in the full prime of youth and strength, he and the Garshan Council of Advisors decided that everything was ready for Great Day. The date was set and detailed orders were given out. The exposure of the Justiciate psiontists advanced the date by the merest trifle. Laynch himself was confident, proudly, superbly confident. He, the strongest of all Garshan psiontists, was therefore the strongest psiontist alive. That fact was axiomatic. Nevertheless he had tested its validity, over and over, on the proving grounds of the planet Psi and had proved it valid. It was unthinkable that any member of any inferior race could give him any trouble. He was literally and terribly appalled, then, when Rodnar of Slaar stopped his knife four inches short of taking the life of the Supreme Justice. The fact that he could not free knife and hand from the Slaaran's grip didn't help a bit. The fact that a woman slashed his wrist added insult to injury. The fact that Wayrec, one of his top psiontist spies, died, and that the Guards were killing his people in a ratio of fifty to one was a bitter fact indeed, but it was a fact. Thus Laynch was seething with a scarcely-imaginable mixture of fury, chagrin, consternation, and frustration when he flashed the order for the surviving psiontists of his breed to 'port themselves back home. He was even more furious and even more appalled when Rodnar and Starrlah held him and his complement to a scoreless tie while the Justiciate's Grand Fleet destroyed or forced out of action the mighty Garshan fleet that, with his help, would certainly have been victorious. It was in no gentle frame of mind, then, that Laynch sat on his throne in the Room of the Throne in the Edifice of Garsh-very similar to the Edifice of Justiceon the planet Newgarsh. He was still seething, pent up, hovering one degree below his extremely high flash-point. Although no sign of strain showed in any lineament of his hard face or in any muscle of his hard body, even his iron control could not keep that almost overmastering fury out of his eyes. It had been only by the grimmest of grim resolve that he had forced himself to accept postponement of Great Day and had sworn to work toward a new Day exactly as he had worked before. It was all he could do now to keep from slashing to bits the man standing rigidly at attention before him. This man, apparently a Slaaran, in full Guard uniform and with a subcaptain's insignia on the shoulders of his collarless purple shirt, was in fact Laynch's top Intelligence ace.

"Report!" Laynch snapped the thought.

"Thank you, All-Powerful," the spy said, and that t.i.tle was strictly true, as far as the Empire of Garsh was concerned. The spy went on, "There were no-I repeat, NO-supernumerary psionic minds of Status Six or higher detectable on or within my range of the planet Slaar at time zero minus one second. At time zero plus one second there were over two hundred of them in the Room of the Throne itself. Therefore they must be able either, one, to screen their minds without using a perceptible shield, or, two, to operate from and through a distance greater than my limit. Either of these alternatives, All-Powerful, leads unavoidably to the conclusion that their powers are greater than we supposed. They have concealed much from us."

"I deduced that much myself." Laynch's thought was dry and cold.

"There was no leakage of their counter-plan? No hints, bits, or sc.r.a.ps that you could piece together, as you did on so many other matters of great importance'."

"None whatever, All-Powerful, and that fact made me think along a new line. I rea.n.a.lyzed all my data and found that all significant information leaked from psiontists of Status Six or lower. All leakages and side bands emanating from Status Five have been trivial or false. This shows that all Fifth-Status side bands and leaks are deliberate."

"But they can't..." Laynch choked himself off. They could and they had. This was another bolus he would have to swallow. He went on, "What do you recommend."

"I recommend, All-Powerful, that I be authorized to use enough psionic power to work my way up, gradually and normally, to Status Five and displace one of the lowest-ranking Grand Commanders of the Guard by having a quarrel with him and killing him in a duel. Only so, I believe, can I learn what Sonrodnar Rodnar of Slaar-Day curse his shade and shadow! -really has in mind."

"There are two objections to that." Laynch shook his head. He was cooling down and beginning to think with his usual clarity.

"It was decided that a sub-captain of Status Eleven was as high as you could safely go. Even if you could live to reach Five-which you will admit is doubtful-how long do you think you would last there."

"Quite Possibly long enough to learn something of value. I am expendable, All-Powerful."

"Not that expendable, Yanark." For the first time during the interview Laynch spoke aloud, his voice even carried a trace of something barely resembling warmth.

"I will bear the matter in mind, but nothing will be done at present. You are too valuable a man to risk on any small possibility of gain. Keep on as you have been doing. That is all."

"I thank you, All-powerful," and Master Spy Sonraken Yanark of Slaar vanished. His place was taken by an elderly, scholarly looking man, apparently a yellow-skin, a brilliant mathematical theoretician who was attending the Interspatial Conference. He began to explain the actuality of different s.p.a.ces, but very little information came through to Laynch.

"Call them coordinates," Laynch ordered, finally.

"Not exact, you say, but the meaning is clear. You can't learn the coordinates of this other s.p.a.ce or how to get there."

"It is as yet impossible, All-Powerful. We have not as yet been able to establish stable reference planes in subs.p.a.ce, although we hope to be able to do so very shortly. In the meantime it requires a highly special and extremely rare type of psionic mind either to perceive the existent degree of incongruence or to exert the unique force required for interspatial rotation. Also, most unfortunately, these abilities, unlike other psionic powers, seem to be unreachable and nontransferable. Even the Doctor Adams, a very intelligent man, a highly capable Psiontist First, and the Supreme Director of the Other-s.p.a.ce force, does not possess that ability. There is in all his s.p.a.ce only one matched pair who can do that type of work. Their names, completely unlike ours, seem to be Percival and Cecily...

"Never mind names!" Laynch snapped.

"Where are they?"

"I thought of that, All-Powerful. They should be taken, studied, and used. Unfortunately, however, no one seems to know where they are. They seem to be Overstats, so that no one can give them orders. Fortunately, however."

"Get to it, windbag! Isn't there some way of finding them?"

"I was coming to that, All-Powerful. The Other s.p.a.ce vessel in which our Conference is being held is now aligned with our s.p.a.ce, not with theirs. Hence, before that vessel can return to its own s.p.a.ce, of which event I will have ample notice, this uniquely powered pair will of necessity come aboard. That will be the only possible time and place of taking them, All-Powerful." Laynch drew a deep breath of relief.

"You do use your brain occasionally, at that," he said. There was no trace of the exultantly savage picture that appeared in his mind-a galaxy of pacifists whose knowledge and resources were his for the taking. The interview went on. That interview was followed by another... and another... and still others... At home, in Apartment Four Point Five Zero Zero Zero, Rodnar and Starrlah stared at each other wordlessly for seconds. Finally; "Well?" she asked.

"W-e-I-I," he replied, slowly.

"Yes. It stinks, the whole deal stinks. As the big Jones man said, 'it stinks in spades."' "You're clicking, man of mine. Those noisome Garshans aren't a bit deader than we are. Especially Laynch, the slankerous kfard."

"And more especially the fleet," he agreed.

"And that fleet wasn't built on any one planet. Nor on any eight or ten planets that we know anything about. I can answer that question now, Starr, about how stupid can a man get. I know all about."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Rod." She laughed, even while shaking her head.

"After all, you know, we didn't have much of anything to go on. But now we have and we'd better jetand as that same Jones said, 'You can play that in spades, Mister.'... That meaning of the thought 'spades' isn't clear... it's another one of their idioms that escapes me...

"Don't get sidetracked, girl. You agree that there was no tipoff about our blocking their attack on the Justices."

"None whatever. Laynch was the most surprised man in the universe. So Status Five is tight, but we knew that already. But I also agree that there must be a leak in the outfit somewhere. The big question is where. Right here on Slaar, don't you think."

"That's my thought. There's a distance effect, especially on faint side bands and leakages. He'll have to be up pretty close."

"But there's very little leakage on the Sixth, Rod."

"I know, but experts don't need much. They mosaic it, you know."

"That's true... There's more, of course, as you go down... but they don't know anything really important down there... and on the Sixth, Rod, there simply can't be anything deliberate. No treason. We examined every one of them ourselves."

"Likewise the Sevens, Eights, and Nines. So that tells us the 'how.' There's a h.e.l.l of a good reader around here somewhere who knew altogether too much about that fleet action... a mind of at least Grade Six in a job no better than Ten... He could be a loner, but I don't think so. Do you."

"I certainly do not... We're riding the same beam, Rod. Being a Purp would be his best chance, so he probably is one... and since that much down-status at that level simply isn't possible, he's a Garshan. He has to be."

"I'm not so sure, Stan" Rodnar frowned in thought.

"That doesn't necessarily follow. Spies of all races and colors work at the trade. Freelance. For hire to the highest bidder." Starrlah shook her head.

"I know, but this would almost have to be a special case. This is-must be-a high-up, someone real close to Laynch; and anyone who is for sale will sell out. Do you think that Laynch would trust anyone except a Garshan in this particular spot."

"Probably not. You're right, I guess... So it's a Garshan we have to look for. One certainly with a bleached skin and probably but not quite as certainly with a plastic- surgery nose... We can check the numbers..." He broke off and grinned as she looked at him quizzically, then went on, "I told you I was stupid. He'll prove to be Slaar-born, of course, with a pedigree as long as mine. His parents will be dead. So we'll look for skin-pigment and a nose job. I don't imagine he could get every pigmented cell bleached alike, do you'."

"I certainly do not. It'd be impossible, is my guess. Especially since he's getting away with it for years and must get a little bit careless now and then. Or maybe they can't bleach clear through, or maybe several other things. So we go rig our minds up for spectroscopy and go through the Tens and Elevens like a couple of destroying angels." They consulted expert after expert in many different fields. First they studied the scars and marks and structures necessarily left by plastic surgery of the nose, which did not take long. Then they studied skin structure, skin pigmentation, and skin bleaching. They learned what the skin pigmentation was, in every race of man; how it developed and where and in what molecular form it occurred, the effect upon each such molecule of the various bleaches that could be employed. Then, applying these knowledges to the Garshan skin, they tuned their minds to the most probable molecular configuration and went out looking for it. There were many thousands of men and women to be examined, but those two examiners could work very fast. Finding each individual was the bottleneck, but even that did not take too long. Each Captain-of-Hundred knew exactly where each of his people was at all times-that was part of his job-so each Captain acted as guide, unknowingly, of course. Hundreds by hundreds, the search went on relentlessly.

16 - QUEST-AND QUARRY.

Jones had said that the building of the Safari would be a very long job. Ordinarily it would have been, requiring many months. However, when all the resources of such a tremendous organization as Metals and Energy are put behind a crash priority project, when expense is no object whatever, that project goes very fast. The work was divided into many subprojects; to each of which was a.s.signed all the people-picked people, too, experts all-who could work on it efficiently. And the work went on continuously, during twenty-four hours per day every day. There were new things in the internal structure of the giant craft, developments growing out of the several conferences, and design changes were needed to accommodate the Grahamless drive. Provision had to be made for avoidance of the kind of power overload which had blown out the Chaytors; but these presented no insurmountable obstacles. After the fundamentals of the Second s.p.a.ce drive had been worked out and tested, they found the operation simpler and more efficient than the standard drive, and hence there were no serious holdups at all. Instead of many months, the job was done in half that many weeks. Its cost was fantastic, but, as has been said, cost in this case was the least important of all the factors involved. The immense warship-laboratory was finished and put through a series of grueling tests. A few bugs were found and were corrected. She was stocked with everything that anyone thought might prove useful on a voyage into the starkly unknown. Then came the selection of the personnel, or, rather, of the population of the worldlet. All the couples who had made the previous crossing volunteered and were accepted, they and their children came aboard. Stella Adams joined them, somewhat reluctantly leaving her Andy, but they felt it was important for her to provide the tight link between him and the Safari while he attended the Interspatial Conference.

He could always 'port aboard the Safari if he were needed. Recruiting went on. The tests were tough-that of interspatial rotation being very tough indeed-but there were thousands of applicants and in time all places were filled. Giant Safari immerged, rotated dimensionally, and emerged into Second s.p.a.ce. Deston called Rodnar, who interrupted his own work long enough to come, to check, and to report that the huge Galaxian subs.p.a.cer was not putting out any X-interference at all. He was invited aboard, but had to decline. He was busier, he said, than any four men ought to be. Then the galactic survey was begun. This was of course to be the merest, sketchiest preliminary, a hit-the-high-spots-only quickie of a few weeks instead of the years a real survey would require. With Adams at the Conference, he had sent Doctor Arthur Brashears, also a Fellow of the College, as a worthy subst.i.tute-and Theodore Jones was an astrogator second to none. The most fiercely brilliant objects in that strange galaxy were nailed down first, into the primary grid. Then a couple of thousand somewhat feebler suns-sector-markers, these, each within psionic range of at least two others-would be tied together into a secondary grid, which would be tied solidly to the primary. When this secondary grid was started, as soon as they knew that if they found anything of interest they could find it again, the Destons and the Trains and Bernice Jones began to tape down their quick-peek, hit-and-run reconnaissances of a couple or three more-or-less-representative solar systems of each sector. Barbara, as before, worked on water and fuels, Deston on metals. Train handled the entire field of planetography.

Bernice and Cecily, their minds so different, yet so powerful, worked together on life. Bernice, exquisitely sensitive and of tremendous reach and scope, found it. Cecily, with her slashingly decisive a.n.a.lytical mind, aided by Stella Adams, cla.s.sified it, or rather, and touching only the most obvious life-forms, they made a stab at phylum, cla.s.s, and order. And Bernice, working with them mind to mind, put down their joint guesses as to the planet's ecology. It was not a scholarly effort, but even such rough notes as these might prove helpful, and doing it was fun. It was their custom after supper to take a regular hour of loafing in the lounge. During one of these periods, Deston said, "Curly, for a while I've had a thought in mind. I know that Doc, besides being the boss, is probably the biggest wheel that ever lived. I'm sure, Stella, you'll agree. I also know that you Trains are very special stuff. Of course all of us to some degree can handle 'most every kind of psionic power, but in 'porting you two have abilities far beyond anything we can do. So-if the rest of us can take it-how about sharing the wealth." Cecily laughed.

"Of course. We should have done it before, I know, but honestly, I never thought of it except at exactly the wrong times. Link up, Perce... Ready, the rest of you?"

"Ready," Barbara said.

"Pour it on, you two." The Trains "poured it on," and it was stiff stuff. Brutally stiff. But those minds could take it, and they learned everything there was to know about interspatial relationships and interspatial rotation and orientation. But no amount of knowledge gave the others the sheer power of the Trains, the heavy 'porting remained their province. Since subcaptains of the Guard were high-status persons usually Elevens-each unmarried subcaptain on Slaar had a good two-room apartment all to himself. All these apartments were pretty much alike. The walls, ceilings, and floors were permanently decorated with a very good grade of art. The essential furniture, too, was a.s.signed and was bolted immovably in place-in the exact places dictated by the artistic and esthetic unity of the room's total design. Thus the only lat.i.tude possible was in the tenant's personal belongings, each ordinarily visible item of which had to be approved by the section's director of art. In view of these restrictions, not much individuality was possible. The apartment of Subcaptain Sonraken Yanark of Slaar; however; was much more individual than most, since every movable thing in it was oriented to music. He had his own hi-fi set, which was just barely approvable for size. He had a bewildering array of recorders and other sound devices. He had all the music-oriented art he could get approved. Commodious closets were half-filled with reels and spools of tape and wire, and a quarter of his pay went religiously to buy more. His love of music amounted to fanaticism. He had two loves, his work and his music, and cared practically nothing for anything else.

He had no hobbies other than music, no intimates, and no even casual friends except a few other officers of the Guard and a few other music-lovers. He had taken some pains, however, not to be too offensive or misanthropic about his isolationism. He went to occasional parties, although never twice with the same girl. Professionals, he said, were better than amateurs in any field, in the s.e.xual as well as the musical. Occasionally he attended games and plays and meetings of various kinds, but he did not even pretend to enjoy them. He was merely and very obviously bored. Bored numb. Many times, in fact, he went to sleep quite openly. Wherefore, needless to say, his name did not appear on any list of eligible men. Thus, without causing comment or arousing suspicion, he spent practically all of his free time alone in his own rooms. Supposedly and apparently he was listening to music and studying one or another branch of it. Actually he was scanning, reading, probing indetectably at governmental, regulatory, managerial, and executive minds up to and including those of Status Six. He very rarely got very much during any one "period of relaxation," but he always got something. Bits and pieces. Sc.r.a.ps of this and that. Careless or deliberate bragging in bars. Unguarded minds in the heat of s.e.xual pa.s.sion. Angrily careless afterthoughts of differences of opinion concerning matters of high policy or decision or action-these were very informative indeed. Bills of lading-shipments movements of money and men-these items and thousands of others went, first, into Yanark's coldly competent encyclopedic brain, and, second, onto a tape or wire. To all seeming, there was nothing but music on any of those records. It would have taken an expert of experts to find any trace of anything else, and, if found, it would have taken a platoon of experts months or years to break the code employed. While each bit was of itself unimportant, the summation was informative indeed. Rodnar would have been appalled if he had even suspected how much Laynch's top Intelligence agent really knew.

For, as a matter of fact, Yanark knew just about everything that was not kept tightly sealed behind the impenetrable and leak-proof shielding possible only to psiontists of Status Five. Rodnar and Starrlah did not have to hunt up all of their subjects one by one, of course. Military-style inspections of hundreds were frequent, and by half-hundreds and quarter- hundreds even more so. With the men in formation, they could scan a hundred men in about half that many seconds. Target, feet. Not mainly to avoid the head, although that was a consideration, princ.i.p.ally because the skin beneath and between the fourth and fifth toes was the best place to look. It was one of the hardest locations to get at, and the one that, in the opinion of both searchers, would be considered the least important. It was at an inspection of hundreds that Starrlah found the spy. Action was thereupon so nearly instantaneous that it seemed automatic. Their two linked minds pounced as one, gripping the mind of the luckless wight so savagely that teleportation was impossible. So was the sending out of any signal. For the barest flick of time three figures stood where only one should have been, then there were none. While no one had actually seen anything in detail, the captain and the three remaining subcaptains had a very good idea of what had happened, but not why. They knew it was Fifth-Status business, and as such was none of theirs. The less they knew about it the healthier they would be. Wherefore the inspection went on exactly as though the missing officer were still in his place. None of the rank and file knew anything, nor was any one of them ever told. And in the beautiful living room of their apartment the two Fives went savagely to work. Rodnar held the spy motionless; Starrlah hurled orders all over the city. Clerks by the dozen dropped whatever they were doing and scurried to filing cabinets and to machines. They found precisely what Rodnar and Starrlah had expected them to find-that the record of Sonraken Yanark of Slaar was flawless in every respect.

So were his antecedents and his connections and everything pertaining thereto. He had been cleared as a Cla.s.s A Double Prime security risk. Neither of the Fives even thought of gentleness or of mercy in dealing with the spy. This was a Garshan. So the two minds drove in against their captive's hard-held block-and paused momentarily in surprise. This mind was a high Six or a low Five; much more powerful than either had expected. He must be near, or possibly at, the top of Laynch's whole Intelligence section! "That is correct," Yanark said aloud, through tight-locked teeth.

"Since you know that much there is no point in trying to deny it. But that is all you will learn from me. I am expendable. I can take anything you can give me, so do your d.a.m.ndest, you swinishly slankerous white kfards." Then Rodnar and Starrlah bore down and really put on the pressure, a pressure so unbearable that even a high Five would have been forced to leak, and after a quarter of a minute of that punishment some sc.r.a.ps of information did begin to come through. He reported directly to Laynch... They saw him standing before the Garshan throne-saw Laynch, his hand heavily bandaged and his right arm in a sling... but they already knew all that stuff...

"Where is Laynch?" The question was driven remorselessly in.

"Where is the Garshan fleet? Where are the Garshan planets? How many Garshan planets are there in all." And sketchily, piece-wise, fuzzily, flickering in and out of existence, an almost unreadable picture began to form. A group of stars... yes, a star-cl.u.s.ter... in a line just to the right of the Eagle-Claw Nebula... But the Garshan knew he was leaking, and he knew what to do about it. He was, even in his own mind, expendable. Wherefore, instantly and without hint of intent, he collapsed his shield; and when forces such as those tear into and through a completely unshielded mind there is nothing readable left in that mind. The man was probably already dead, but, just to make sure, Rodnar pulled his blade-only to be stopped cold in midstroke, knife, arm, and body alike, by the full power of Starrlah's mind.

"No, Rod, no! Stop it."

"Huh? Wha'ja mean stop it."

"I won't have' blood all over this beautiful rug."

"Oh. That makes sense, at that." He sheathed his weapon, broke the spy's neck with his hands, and then, after a.s.suring himself that the Garshan was unquestionably dead, he 'ported the corpse out into s.p.a.ce and set it on a collision course with the sun. A mental message to Rodnar's Second-in-Command, in which he was told only as much as he needed to know, resulted in the prompt 'porting of every movable item in the apartment of Sonraken Yanark into Guard headquarters, where experts promptly set to work on the long study of what the Garshan spy had acc.u.mulated. Obviously, of course, summaries and conclusions had long since made their way to Newgarsh.

17 - REVELATIONS.

Though they had eliminated Laynch's number one spy, Rodnar and Starrlah still had much to do. Each had devoted many hours to studying their problem, then they had compared results and had studied it together They agreed that Laynch must have a Garshan psiontist attending the Interspatial Conference. Since Knuaire of Spath was a Fellow of that Conference, they asked him to find that Garshan and learn, if possible, what the spy was really doing. The Garshan was found without trouble and without any revelation of the search, and Knuaire 'ported into the RodStarr apartment that same evening.

"You were right," he reported, after greetings had been exchanged and the three had settled down in the living room.

"There is a Garshan Fellow-Marrjyl actually found him. Sonlanjann Skeejan of Skane. A yellow-skin with a reworked nose. I was never so shocked in my life. d.a.m.n it, I've known the man for years. He's one of the top theoreticians of all s.p.a.ce. He has a string of degrees as long as your arm and publications to fill box after box. I checked his number. Everything is on the beam, clear back...

"It would be, it'd have to be," Rodnar said, and told Knuaire about Subcaptain Yanark of Slaar.

"I see. Bomb-proofing. Anyway, we went over him again, and found hundreds of cells showing unmistakable Garshan characteristics, even though he is doing-or getting-a very good bleach-and-dye job. So I'm sure he's a Garshan. As to what he's doing, he's studying. How he's studying! Except for me, I wouldn't wonder if he's getting more stuff than."

"Hold it!" Rodnar broke in.

"I get a side band there. You're taping their whole civilization."

"I'm trying to," Knuaire admitted, "but it's a supreme mess. How it works at all is a mystery. I have ten reels of it so far and not a foot of it makes sense. It's such a weirdie, such an unbelievable mixture of."